The Reaping Crone

The Reaping Crone rides the sky Sweeping, reaping The old and the dead are to her hearth fires led By the twinkling of her eye Drawing down the harvest moon Silver tongue, with an ancient rune Across the veil, returns the tune La, la La, la, la, la, ah, lo La, ah Far as the eye, the eye can see The rolling hills, the wild and free And a thing out of time is born in me I am old, yes, it's true The holy oak, the rowan tree The sap; the wine, the soul; a seed As I am quickened and I have need I love as she loves through me The Reaping Crone rides the sky Sweeping, reaping The old and the dead are to her hearth fires led By the twinkling of her eye Swaying soft, her breath of trees Her crown: the stars—her womb; the seas And a thing out of time is born in me I am old, yes, it's true As ash is Adam, and elm is Eve And Mother Korn, the laden sheave As I am quickened and I have need I love as she loves through me